


Black, Blue, and You

by wargoddess



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, Light BDSM, M/M, Police Brutality, Polyamory, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-25 19:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6206749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver is a barista who moonlights in a tattoo parlor. Cullen is a detective for the NYPD. <strike>They fight crime!</strike> Actually, they mostly just fight each other, in more ways than one. [NOTE: Not likely to finish, sorry.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaand this is what happens when I try to write a lighthearted coffeeshop AU. I clicked the warning for "graphic depictions of violence" because it comes closest, but I don't know if this will get particularly graphic; the worst beating takes place offscreen. I'm just trying to avoid triggering people who have real experiences with stop-and-frisks, jump-outs, police cordons at protests, their constant looming threat as they stand around subway stations with machine guns, racial/ethnic profiling, or any of the other evil shit that cops do. (I've experienced some of this, if you're wondering. I'll probably process why I felt the need to write about this with my therapist, later.) Additional warning: I'm going to TRY to keep this lighthearted, or as lighthearted as I ever get, but I'm playing with Serious Stuff, and there will be a kink element eventually. You know my muse by now. Things might get a little, uh, fucked up.
> 
> Obvs this is not the fic to read if you think "stop killing us" is an anti-police statement, and so on. And yes, I am framing most of the NYPD as corrupt Templars. Deal with it.

     It should have been a routine investigate-file-forget. Someone had decided to try and rob a CafeAultheWay at gunpoint at 11 pm on a weeknight. Things like that happened with such regularity these days -- the new drug epidemic was making the Eighties crack boom look like a walk in the park -- that Cullen had basically built it into his routine. 10 pm shift start; 10:30 he and his partner sat down to do paperwork; 11 pm and the call would come in about a robbery at a bodega, or a liquor store. More recently the robberies had been hitting hotels and other upscale-ish places, probably because drug epidemics never stayed among the poor no matter how much politicians pretended that they did, and also because poor business owners were more likely to pack heat themselves, or at least a nice metal baseball bat. Artisanal sandwich shops made for softer targets. Which was why _this_ call was so unusual, once Cullen parsed it. This time, the robbery had been foiled and the perp was in custody, because a barista had beaten the man unconscious.

     Samson had laughed his ass off at the initial report, and had continued to periodically dissolve into hysterical, thigh-smacking, tear-wiping fits throughout the ride to the coffeeshop. Fortunately Cullen was driving. He had to admit that the whole thing _did_ sound ludicrous, though not quite as funny as Samson seemed to find it. In his head he tried to construct the scene before they got there, and could not; the very idea of some delicate creature wearing pencil jeans and a beard to hide the scrawniness of his neck, taking on some violent thug ripped and high on Red, simply would not appear before his mind's eye.

     The cops on the scene had the perp already in the car for transport to central booking, they said, and the gun had already been bagged as evidence and for ownership tracing. The scene seemed quiet and undisturbed otherwise, customers shooed out past the police tape and staff still inside being questioned, though that did not explain why a young man was sitting on the ground under one of the sodium lights outside the shop, wearing zip-tie cuffs as well and looking decidedly disgruntled about the whole thing. Sounding disgruntled, too. Loudly. "This is fucking bullshit!" he was shouting, as Cullen stepped out of the car.

     "Took you guys long enough," said Mettin, scowling as he swung to face Cullen and Samson. He was a stocky, Irish-flavored stereotype of an old-school cop, made worse by the muttonchops he insisted on wearing. "Where were you, off diddling each other?"

     "No, we were diddling your mother," Samson said, which shut him up for the moment. Cullen sighed inwardly at Mettin's splutter. He'd grown used to Americans over the years, but he would never be able to do casual vulgarity in the workplace the way they so often did. It didn't help that so many of them, on hearing his accent, assumed that he was some sort of effete snob, which seemed to be based on stereotypes from American television. Samson, like any good partner, made up for Cullen's shortcomings by being twice as vulgar and crude as anyone else, which at least let Cullen keep his hands and conscience clean. "Quit bitching and tell us the sitch, Mettin."

     "These fucking cuffs hurt!" shouted the man on the ground. Out of long habit, Cullen ignored him. Another beat cop, Rylock, glared at the man first, but then came over and read off her notepad.

     "Suspect entered the shop at approximately 11:06 p.m.," she said. "Witnesses said he immediately looked 'off', but the shop is known to serve unsold pastries and pour-off coffee -- that's the last of the batch, which they'd throw out anyway -- to the homeless, so regulars didn't think much of him. Suspect reached the front of the line and pulled a sawed-off shotgun on the register clerk."

     "A _sawed-off?_ " Cullen flinched and turned to stare at her. "Is this 1980? Are we in a Charles Bronson movie?"

     Rylock shrugged. "Weapon's in evidence, sir. I just write 'em down. Anyway, the barista grabbed the barrel and disarmed the suspect, handing the weapon to a co-worker. He then hopped the counter, chased down the suspect before he could reach the coffeeshop door to flee, and proceeded to administer approximately seven blows to the face, a kick to the groin, and a stomp to the abdominal region."

     "Shit," said Samson, looking honestly impressed. "A _barista_ did all that?"

     "Yeah, a _barista_ ," yelled a woman from across the shop, where some of the rookies were boxing in a small crowd of people. She wore one of the coffeeshop aprons too, and she was small and pale and dark-haired and furious, with an odd line-only tattoo design all over her face. Several other people in aprons clustered around her, all decidedly rebellious. "Not like _you guys_ ever actually help anyone!"

     "Co-workers," Rylock said, when Cullen frowned at the angry woman. "They keep trying to interfere with the investigation. And they're refusing to press charges."

     "The hell for?" Samson looked as incredulous as Cullen felt. "They _want_ this guy coming back with a bigger gun?" He gestured at the young man sitting on the ground again. The _very large_ young man, even sitting on the pavement, whose sleeveless shirt showed off arms rippling with muscle and full-color tattoo sleeves all the way down to his zip-tied wrists. That barista must not have had much of a hook, Cullen thought disdainfully; the young man had only some scrapes along one cheekbone and his jaw, and a purpled mark across his throat. Seven blows to the face should've left more of a mark.

     But... wait. No one had mentioned a chokehold. And hadn't one of the rookies said the perpetrator was in the car?

     Rylock glanced at the young man, scowling. "That's not the perp. That's the barista. He resisted arrest when we showed up, so we're taking him in."

     Cullen stared at her. Then at Samson, whose mouth had fallen open. They both looked at the young man, who glared back at them.

     "Yeah," the young man snarled. "I saved the bloody day. _Now take these fucking cuffs off me_."

#

     Ten minutes later they sat in the coffeeshop's breakroom, where Cullen leaned against a counter watching the young man -- one Carver Hawke, according to Rylock's notes -- seethe in quiet fury.

     "Guess I'm lucky," Hawke snapped. "If I was black I'd probably be dead already."

     Cullen's jaw tightened. "That is unfair," he said. Though... it might also have been true.

     "Unfair?" Like Cullen himself, the young man sounded like a Londoner; so strange to hear someone else who spoke _normally_ again. South London, though, his vowels nearly swallowed until his "fucks" sounded a bit like "fowks." Cullen tended to lapse into his own local accent whenever he went back home, but while in New York he tried to stick to Received Pronunciation; Americans couldn't understand half the things he said, otherwise. And now Carver Hawke was angry, which made the sharp edges of his accent even more razor-fine. " _Unfair_ is having a gun pointed in my face by a Red-head, catching him, then having _three_ guns pointed in my face by the cops, who then proceed to tackle me, grind my head into the sidewalk, and kick the shit out of me while yelling, 'Stop resisting!' They were so busy with me that the Red-head nearly got away! _My friends_ caught him again, and held him 'til _your friends_ got tired."

     Cullen drew in a long, careful breath, then let it out. The Red-head was a slight man -- red lyrium tended to beef them up at first, but later it ate through their bodies like something alive, reducing them to sickly skin and brittle bone. But he'd been wearing good jeans and an expensive Knicks jacket, and someone had clearly been looking after him, because his hair was neatly trimmed and his face was shaven. Impossible to see that he was a Red-head until you watched his hands shake or looked closely at his permanently bloodshot eyes. This meant that when Rylock and Mettin and the rest had rolled up, they'd seen a well-groomed, probably well-off smaller man bloodied and weeping and pinned beneath a man who could have auditioned for "ex-felon" on any one of six or seven police procedurals filming in the city that day. This was nothing but the tats and the sleeveless shirt, and the fact that Hawke had the physique of a healthy NFL player; beyond that Hawke was equally well-groomed, with neat hair and pared nails and a shave close enough to make Cullen jealous. But a lot of cops made snap decisions based on immediate impressions, not thoughtful examination.

     "I would like to tender apologies on behalf of my fellow officers," Cullen said, stiffly.

     Hawke's flinty expression didn't change. "For?"

     Cullen blinked in confusion. "Pardon?"

     "For what?" Hawke shrugged. "Usually it's something like, 'for you feeling mistreated' or 'for any undue distress you may have suffered.' You know, magically, by itself, no one actually involved in _causing_ that distress or mistreatment."

     As that was precisely what his commander had advised Cullen to say in situations when he was the ranking officer on the scene, Cullen considered several replies before finally opting for honesty. "For your mistreatment at the hands of the officers on the scene."

     Hawke looked disgusted. " _You_ weren't one of 'em. Let _them_ apologize for what they did."

     That would certainly be the ethical thing to do, and Cullen had half a mind to make that happen. But it would be the political mess of political messes for Cullen to take Mettin -- the ranking uniform on the scene at the time -- to task before he'd cleared the matter with Captain Meredith. So Cullen punted. "I want to help you, Mr. Hawke, regardless of what my companions did. Would you like to file a complaint against the officers who injured you?"

     Hawke laughed. "Right. So it can go into the circular file, and I can get stopped and frisked every other block for the rest of my commuting life? Please." He rubbed at his wrists, wincing. Cullen had cut the zip-ties off himself, but clearly not before damage had been done. "Is that all you're here for? To apologize on some other wanker's behalf, and calm me down with bullshit? Your job must suck, Detective or whatever you are. Can I go?"

     Cullen sighed again, praying briefly for strength, and then he went over to sit down at the breakroom table across from Hawke. "I am a detective, yes. Cullen Rutherford. Would you like my card?"

     He'd been trying to establish some kind of rapport, hoping to get across that he sincerely wanted to make up for Hawke's mistreatment. It was dangerous for him to have come in here, alone and unobserved with a possible police-brutality victim; it would look suspicious, and if Hawke decided to file a complaint against him, Cullen would have no defense. But Cullen had sensed instinctively that trying to make apologies in front of the officers who'd wronged Hawke would not go over well, with either the victim or Mettin's crew. So he'd left Samson to chew them out; Samson had a way with that sort, and somehow no one ever kept grudges against him. In the meantime, Cullen had come to make certain Hawke was all right. Not that he was doing well at it.

     As a case in point, Hawke narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. "Why the shit aren't you back home, on a civilized police force in a civilized country?"

     Cullen lifted an eyebrow. "I was sent here to live with relatives when I was sixteen," he said. "I was naturalized ten years later, and joined the force shortly afterward. At this point I've been here my entire adult life."

     "Not answering my question," Hawke said, half-smiling. His eyes were hard, too, Cullen reflected -- like blue marble, earth-deep and judgmental.

     "That's true," Cullen said, resisting the tightening of his jaw, the sharpening of his voice, the tension and anger and churning fear that rose in his belly as he replied. "But the rest is none of your business."

     To his surprise, this actually seemed to make Hawke relax where Cullen's earlier attempt at friendliness had not. With a little sigh, Hawke sat back, looking Cullen up and down. "Got dual citizenship, myself," he offered after a moment. "Mum was from here, though she had me over there. My father died, shit went down, we all -- me and my sisters -- " He winced. " _Sister_ , came here a few years ago." He looked away, beyond the walls of the breakroom, his expression turning bitter and wistful. "Fucking hate this place. Not like the police back home couldn't be shite, but at least there they had to _work_ at it to kill you. Gave 'em time to think. Here they watch too many stupid-arse movies and decide you _look_ like a criminal, then pop pop pop, you're dead."

     "To be fair," Cullen said, delicately, "you did quite the number on your Red-head." Cullen had seen the man, slumped in the back of Mettin's cruiser with paramedics examining him. The witnesses had consistently assured Cullen that the ruin of the perpetrator's face was all Carver Hawke's handiwork.

     Hawke shrugged. "Had to make sure he won't fuck with me and mine again. Maybe he'll tell all his Red-head buddies and the word will spread that CafeAulTheWay is a bad place to try and score extra cash. Safer to solve problems that way than get you fuckers involved."

     "You could have killed him."

     "Your buddies could've killed me." Hawke touched his throat, where someone had plainly put him in a chokehold. An _illegal_ chokehold, given the number of New Yorkers who'd died at NYPD hands that way. Cullen grimaced. "Anyway, I pulled the last few hits. Just did those for effect, and advertising." Hawke rubbed his wrists again, completely unrepentant.

     Cullen shook his head, torn between rueful amusement and frustration. He couldn't help it; he _liked_ this fellow. And he wanted Hawke to file a complaint, because the officer who had choked him was probably going to kill somebody if they weren't stopped. Yet how to convince the man to do so, when he clearly did not trust Cullen any farther than he could throw him? _Work on the rapport again_. "I see. That was clever of you."

     That worked. Hawke's heavy eyebrows quirked in surprise at the compliment. Without the scowl he looked younger, kinder -- not gentle, certainly, but all at once Cullen saw why someone had hired him as a barista, though he hardly fit the stereotype. He was certainly visually striking, for those who weren't intimidated by his size. If he smiled, Cullen guessed, it would be surprisingly sweet on Hawke's hard-angled face. The sort of smile that broke hearts...

     Which was not an appropriate thought to have for the victim of a case he was working, Cullen realized belatedly, and guiltily. Not at all. Oh, dear.

     Hawke watched him with very blue eyes, thoughtful now. "Guess that's me, then. All clever."

     Cullen could think of nothing to say to that. Abruptly feeling awkward for reasons he could not explain, he tried to look elsewhere and think of some easy way to end the conversation. But his gaze fell on Hawke's nearer wrist, and he frowned as he spied the livid line marring the edge of one tattoo sleeve. Was that _blood_? "May I?"

     Hawke glanced at his wrists as if in surprise. "Hnh? Oh. Yeah." He lifted one hand, and Cullen took it to peer at the wrist. The zip-cuffs had raised an angry red weal across Hawke's skin which was, yes, actually bleeding in a few places. That, Cullen knew at once, was deliberate. Hawke must have mouthed off to Mettin, and in retaliation Mettin had made the ties painfully tight. It wasn't just pettiness; left on long enough, cuffs that tight could cut off circulation to the fingers, causing nerve damage and maybe even necessitating amputation. And making them too tight was explicitly warned against in the rules for suspect detention for that very reason.

     Cullen sighed. "You should take pictures of this," he said, trying again. "Use a camera that time- and date-stamps the images, or text or email them to reporters, a lawyer, or the Civilian Complaint Review Board. Include photos of the scrapes on your face, and those bruises."

     Hawke was silent for a moment, and Cullen felt the weight of his wariness. "Think I've actually got a case?"

     "Yes."

     Hawke twitched a little in surprise. "Huh."

     Hawke seemed disinclined to pull his hand back, so Cullen could not help examining his arm further; the tattoos drew the eye like magic. The linework on the right arm etched out flames, skeletal trees, small desperate figures fleeing ahead of a ravening inhuman horde... A whole story written in flesh, though one that was rather gothic horror-fantasy. Or perhaps death metal? In spite of himself, Cullen turned Hawke's arm over, fascinated. The sleeve went all the way around, up into the armpit. "When did you get this?"

     "The last part, down near the wrist, is a year old," Hawke said, sounding bemused. "Upper arm's maybe two or three."

     The upper arm was astonishing, too. A staff with an elaborate head of coral and leather wended 'round his bicep, surrounded by a blue aura that very nearly glimmered in the breakroom's harsh lighting. Every line crisp, no fading of the colors. "This is marvelous work."

     Hawke tilted his head. "You got ink?"

     Cullen blushed a little. "Simple," he admitted, "and old. Nothing like this."

     Hawke seemed to be weighing a decision. "The work's by a friend of mine," he said. "Over at Grey Warden Tattooing, on Flatbush." After a moment, he added, "Actually, I'm his apprentice."

     Cullen blinked. "You're a barista studying to be a tattoo artist?"

     Hawke's jaw tightened immediately. "I'm a guy working any job he fucking can, to help feed his family."

     Cullen deserved that. "Sorry."

     "For what? It's just the truth." Abruptly he looked sullen rather than overtly angry; he turned away. "Even if nobody else gives a shit."

     Having obviously put his foot in it, Cullen awkwardly focused on Hawke's arm, again. The weal left by the zip-ties looked so much worse given its position, crossing and marring the lower edge of the flame-sleeve. And yet there was something about the juxtaposition of the two -- beauty overlaid by the evidence of pain, smooth skin marred by the raised red line -- that made Cullen's belly clench, just a little. _Don't_ , he thought. _Just don't._ But he could not help himself. He lifted a thumb and drew it across the ridge of broken skin.

     Hawke's breath caught, just a little. Cullen let go of him at once, privately cursing himself, his family, and everything that was wrong with him... but Hawke did not pull his fingers out of Cullen's loosened hand. And when Cullen looked up, guiltily, _his_ breath caught. His mouth went dry and his skin tingled and his groin tightened in a way that he dared not acknowledge because... because the way Hawke was watching him, eyes searching Cullen's face, the wariness in his expression slowly giving way to surprise and shame and _interest_ and amusement and astonishment --

     Oh, Maker, no.

     Abruptly Cullen pushed himself to his feet, snatching his hand away from Hawke's as if the latter was on fire. "Ah, well, again, let me tender apologies, Mr. Hawke," he said. "My own, for wasting your time, if you will not have my colleagues'. But if you should change your mind about filing that complaint, here -- " His hand went automatically to the breast pocket of his trenchcoat, then stalled halfway there because all of a sudden he both wanted and did not want Hawke to be able to contact him. But. He completed the gesture and set the card on the table between them because that was what a good cop did, and Cullen was nothing if not a good cop. He swallowed to cover his stammer and continued, "Here is my number. I can refer you to the CCRB."

     Hawke looked at the little white card on the table, then back up at Cullen. He did not reach for the card; his expression had gone unreadable. This gave Cullen some hope that he had mistaken the look on Hawke's face, a moment before.

     "Thanks," he said, finally. He got to his feet, and Cullen remained almost painfully hyperaware that Hawke had left his card on the table. But it turned out Hawke had gotten up in order to reach for his own back pocket. He pulled out a brightly-colored business card of his own and offered it to Cullen. Cullen took it, by rote -- and Hawke's mouth curved in a slow smile. His eyes roamed down Cullen's body, then back up, unmistakeable and bold. "Maybe you need some more details for your report, or maybe you want a consult on some ink." He shrugged. "Give us a call, then."

     His voice made it a casual suggestion; his eyes made it a question. His body -- which Cullen now saw was tall and broad and lean and strong and perfect, even dirt-smudged and aproned, perfect and beautiful and _such soft skin, so tender to the tongue, so little it would take to raise more lovely welts in lovelier places, done properly so that you would enjoy_ \-- made the words practically an open invitation.

     Not trusting himself to speak again, Cullen swallowed and nodded once with curt and passable professionalism, then saw himself out.


	2. Chapter 2

     _Fuck me,_ Carver thought, falling back onto the breakroom couch and groaning, with one forearm flung over his eyes. _I actually want a cop to fuck me._

     He hurt all over. The worst of it was the stomp on his chest, down near the bottom of his ribcage; he suspected he had a fracture, though he wasn't going to give those fuckers the satisfaction of knowing they'd really hurt him. He had insurance, thank Obamacare. They'd gotten him good damn near everywhere else, too, though: kicks all over his torso, a footprint on his right arse-cheek, scrapes where they'd ground his face into the filthy sidewalk, and the throat. That last bit had been done by that mutton-chop-wearing shitstain, Carver thought, though he couldn't be sure, because he'd been in the middle of trying to stay conscious. Whoever it was, Carver remembered the mildew-smell of the fabric covering the cop's arm, and the garlic-smell of harsh breath wafting 'round his face -- and the hard lump of a dick grinding against his ass. Sick bastard, whoever he was. And disturbing. _Am I not filing a complaint because it's pointless?_ he had to ask himself. _Or because I'm scared shitless of the kind of man who could get off on choking me to death?_

     He didn't know, and didn't want to think about it. Easier to focus on something else, anything else, besides that sour breath and his aching body and the bitter hatred that stewed inside him. He'd only meant to do the right thing. He'd only taken on that Red-head because he _could_. He'd only wanted to help.

     Better to think about Cullen, he decided firmly, and perhaps desperately. A tall, long sword of a man, blond and trim despite his shabby trenchcoat and sale-rack suit-and-tie, with eyes that had clearly seen more than a few sleepless nights. Lips a hair too thin for Carver's tastes, and he really needed to give up trying to talk posh; Americans wouldn't understand him anyway, since they couldn't parse accents for shit, so he might as well sound like himself. What had that been, under his careful syllables? Bit of Estuary? And where was he from, west? North? Got some gritty city in him, though, that much had been clear in how much he'd liked the look of marks on Carver's skin. He'd touched Carver so gently, gazed at his tattoos so reverently, completely oblivious to what his fascination had been doing to Carver. To feel those long, strong fingers wrapping 'round his wrist to hold him in place? Maker, that might be nice. And that _voice_ of his, posh-sounding or not, breathing _I want to help you, Mr. Hawke..._

     Carver grimaced. No, that sounded like his dad. But _I want to help you, Carver,_ would be all right. And maybe there was something more to his interest in Carver's cuts and owies. Maybe there was something in Detective Posh that liked the contrast of red welts on tattooed skin, and maybe he might like to --

     _Maybe nothing. He's a fucking **cop**._

     Carver sighed, trying to roll over on his side to vent frustration -- and then yelping as his ribs reminded him that this was a bad idea. Which made it a perfect time for the breakroom door to open so that Anders and Merrill and Isabela could file in and hear him whimpering like a kicked puppy. Merrill reacted predictably, hurrying over and starting to fuss immediately, while Anders reacted predictably too, starting to pace while muttering darkly about "burn it down" and "start shooting back." Isabela, meanwhile, moved to sit on the table, watching Carver with amusement.

     "Not really the way to do things, sweet thing," she said, propping her chin on one fist. "Probably would've been better to just give him the money."

     "What, because the shitting cops might kill me for defending myself from a robber?" Irritated again, Carver batted away Merrill's hand; she was trying to put a cold compress on his forehead for some reason. "Is that how things work in this useless country, you pick who you want to get fucked over by, the criminals or the police?"

     "Well, the criminals are a lot less likely to hurt you," Isabela replied with a shrug.

     "Oh, I don't like the look of this," Merrill said. She had pulled up Carver's shirt to expose the purpled, swollen spot over his ribs. "That awful woman who took notes -- she didn't mention to the detective that she kicked you herself. Carver, are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"

     He was actually pretty sure that he did. But. "Not yet," he said, wearily. "They'll be watching this place for a bit, won't they? Not just the cops. I need to be seen up and about. Help me up."

     Anders twitched out of his private rant and turned to glare at him. "That's stupid, Carver. We'll close for the night and all go home, and then it doesn't matter who sees what."

     "Better not go home alone," Isabela said gently. Carver frowned and stared at her in dawning dismay. She smiled back, though her gaze was serious. But then, Isabela was a Brooklyn girl, born and bred; if anyone would know what evil the NYPD was capable of -- including coming into a brutality victim's home and threatening or harassing him not to file a complaint -- it would be her.

     "Fuck," Carver groaned.

     They all looked at each other. Merrill sighed. "You can't come home with me, Carver," she said, unhappily. "It's against the rules." Merrill lived in an "intentional co-housing community" near Williamsburg -- a commune, basically. "Unless you're sleeping with me, that is, and you can, you know, but I kick sometimes in the night, and I'm worried I might hurt you more. But I suppose that _would_ work... All right, do you want to sleep with me?"

     Carver stared at her, trying not to blush and failing. He'd always liked Merrill, and sometimes he thought she liked him back, but then sometimes he wasn't sure she was actually speaking the same language. "Uh..." Rather desperately, he glanced at Anders.

     "You can't stay with _me_ ," Anders said, folding his arms and scowling. "You know Justus would be a complete ass about me bringing another man home."

     "Justus is a complete ass, period," Merrill muttered. None of them really liked Anders' boyfriend, who was something of a controlling jerk. It was why they let it slide sometimes, when _Anders_ was a controlling jerk to them. He was as close to being the boss as any of them had, mostly because he had a knack for getting a shoestring operation organized and into something like efficient shape. That earned him some extra consideration. Sometimes.

     "I heard that."

     "I meant for you to!"

     "This is ridiculous," Isabela said, finally easing off the table. "Come home with me, sweet thing. Not like it would be the first time." She grinned and winked and sauntered out. A moment later, Carver heard her start the purge process on the espresso machine, so that they could start shutting down the shop.

     "I didn't need to know that," Anders groaned, and then he shook his head and went out to help Isabela.

     "Help me up," Carver said again to Merrill. She frowned in disapproval, but then sighed and put her arm under his uninjured side, helping him lever himself up. It hurt like the devil, and for a moment afterward Carver just sat there, panting and trying not to gray out again. He'd read that that was dangerous after an injury. Something about blood clots.

     "You should file a complaint," Merrill said softly. She put a hand on his, for which Carver was grateful, because then he could focus on that and not the pain. "I know that detective was trying to get you to do that."

     "Were you listening at the door?"

     "A little." She shrugged, unrepentant. "Making sure he wasn't doing anything funny."

     At that, Carver laughed. And then he remembered the moment in which Cullen had taken his hand, touching the cut on his wrist with a feather-light finger, his gaze roaming over Carver's skin with such weight that it felt like a caress.

     _Fuck. Why did he have to be hot? Fucking cop._

     "I've never met a nice one before," Merrill mused then, as if hearing Carver's thought. "I mean, I know nice ones are _possible_ , and most of them just ignore me, same as everyone else, but you hear so many things about the police."

     "Yeah. Well. I know there's some who try to just do their jobs." Carver rubbed his face, wincing as his fingers stung the scrapes. "But most of those look the other way when the other sort gets handsy, or shooty, so I don't know if I want to call any of them _nice_. You stay away from them, either way. They'll only think you're harmless 'til they find your stash." And then, well, Carver didn't want to know what the wrong kind of cop would do to someone like Merrill. She was small and delicate-looking -- _not_ frail, given that she was a brown belt in krav maga; she could probably kick Carver's arse -- and a lot of men liked to hurt small, delicate-looking women. No different from the sort who liked to hurt big, tough-looking men, though, really.

     "Oh! My stash." Merrill giggle-snorted. "You make me sound so _dangerous_. It's mostly just herbs! You know, I think I have some feverfew in my purse, it can ease aches and pains, I can make you some tea -- "

     Oh, Maker. He knew better than to let Merrill get started. She was into homeopathy and naturopathy and they'd only just managed to talk her out of that anti-vaxxer shite. She also sold the best weed Carver had ever smoked, which she grew in her commune's backyard shed. Somehow, growing it alongside hippie herbs just made it better. "No, no tea, but water would be nice," he said. That was even true. Getting the shit kicked out of one was thirsty work, apparently. So Merrill got up to fetch Carver a cup from the breakroom's water dispenser.

     "I just think you should call that detective," she continued, while Carver drank.

     "Maybe," Carver hedged. And to prove that he was thinking about it, he did pick up the little card on the table. CULLEN RUTHERFORD, DETECTIVE FIRST GRADE. He put it into his pocket, then forgot about it as Merrill came over to help him to his feet.

#

     The next day, as Carver limped back to Isabela's couch, he finally conceded that he really was hurt, and maybe Merrill had been right. Isabela had gone off to work at the shop, leaving Carver alone with too much time to think, and throb. So after staring at her ceiling for an hour or so, Carver fumbled the card out of the pile of his clothing -- Isabela had somehow produced a pair of oversized Dancing-Snoopy boxer shorts for him to wear after his shower -- and reached for his cellphone.

     For the first three rings, he hovered on the brink of hanging up, hating himself even for making the call. By the fourth ring, though, he felt committed, so when the fifth ring came he actually found himself annoyed. If Detective Posh McNiceGuy couldn't be bothered to answer his phone, why had he bothered to give Carver a card? But then there was a connecting click on the other line.

     "Cullen Rutherford," said that posh voice, crisp and distracted and professional and disturbingly warm despite all that.

     "Uh, hey," Carver said, momentarily thrown because _fuck, that voice of his_. Then it belatedly occurred to him that Detective Posh wouldn't know who he was. "Oh. Um. Sorry. I'm, I'm Carver. Hawke? We spoke yesterday."

     He'd meant to add something cutting, like _after your mates kicked me half to death_ , but the whole phone call had thrown him off his stride. Cullen Rutherford, thankfully, immediately said, "Ah, yes, Mr. Hawke. Are you well?"  


     He sounded... good, Carver decided. In more than just his voice. He sounded interested, friendly, and that helped Carver relax. "Yeah. I mean... not really." Carver took a deep breath. It was hard, saying this to a cop. "I'm pretty hurt. My friend took me to New York Methodist last night. They said I've got two cracked ribs, whiplash, renal trauma... That's, uh, that's -- "

     "Kidneys, yes. Maker. I hadn't realized they'd worked you over so." Rutherford actually sounded horrified. "Which room are you in? I can visit."

     _Visit?_ "Uh, well, I'm not at the hospital. I checked myself out against advice. Came home with a friend." That had been on the advice of Anders, who'd called at 4 am to check on Carver, which was touching. He'd given Carver the day off, and then darkly warned that the cops would be able to make his death look like an accident if they could get to the hospital staff. That part hadn't been so touching. Anders was paranoid as fuck, but the worst part of it was that he was sometimes right -- and after choking down enough painkillers to kill a horse, Carver had been inclined to listen.

     A moment of silence on the other end. "Was that wise?"

     Carver chuckled, then winced. "Maybe, maybe not. But, uh..." He sighed. "I'm thinking again about filing that complaint. What would it involve?"

     Cullen said, "The investigation wouldn't be conducted by me, is the first thing you should know. Or any member of the NYPD. A civilian investigator -- "

     "Civilian?"

     "Yes. Trained in investigative and interviewing techniques. That person would take your statement, to begin the process. If you aren't well enough to travel, the investigator will come to you. Are you well enough for that?"

     Carver considered. "In a day or two, maybe." Right now, trying to navigate the subway would be... not fun.

     "It would be best for you to file the complaint as quickly as possible." Cullen seemed to consider for a moment. "Perhaps you could have someone take you to the CCRB office? It's downtown, near the World Trade Center site. That would be fastest."

     "None of my friends drive. I don't drive."

     "I could take you."

     _Wait. What?_ Carver frowned. "Uh, is _that_ wise? Helping me rat on your mates?"

     There was a momentary pause again, and when Cullen finally spoke again, he sounded like he was regretting what he'd just said. _Then why'd you say it?_ Carver wondered. Cullen said, "Probably... not." He sighed. "Maker, this is a mess. And it probably isn't good for me to have much contact with you during the process, lest the officers at the other end of the complaint decide that I'm manipulating you for my own purposes. It's only that... I meant it when I said that I wanted to help you."

     That was sweet. And it made Carver realize that he _hadn't_ mistaken the interest he'd seen in Detective Posh's eyes the day before. It was real. Which was a problem because Carver was interested right back, and he _shouldn't_ be, he didn't _want_ to be, and all of this sent a flush of completely irrational shame and irritation through him. He scowled. "But if you gave me a ride, then you'd know where I am, and your mates could come over and give me a talking-to about filing a complaint."

     "I'd -- " Cullen fell into a brief, shocked silence. "I would tell no one."

     "You say." Carver's jaw was beginning to tighten in anger, and that fucking hurt. It only made his mood worsen.

     That Cullen began to sound angry too was actually comforting, sort of. _Knew you weren't really nice, fucker._ "If you will not trust me, I cannot help you."

     "Trust you?" Carver laughed, once, and fought the urge to hang up on him. "I'm pissing blood because some cops tried to 'help' me. And did you help that Red-head?"

     "The man who _tried to rob you at gunpoint_? No, why would I have? My men booked him for weapons possession without a permit."

     Carver cursed. "I know full well Merrill and the others didn't press charges for the robbery. Fuck, did you throw him in the same tank with the rapists and murderers? Whose idea was that?"

     "Mine," Cullen said, coldly now. "Because his next victims might not have your martial prowess, Mr. Hawke, and I have to consider what is best for _the public_ , not for some violent addict. I don't know why your friends refused to press charges, but -- "

     "Because addicts don't need jail, they need help!" Carver flinched after this shout, because it made his ribs twinge something fierce. In a normal voice, he continued, "Maker, that poor guy's probably in _withdrawal_ by now. Nobody who's got the money for bail goes robbing coffee shops. You know what lyrium withdrawal does to a person? Did you even talk to the guy?"

     "It isn't my job to talk to criminals, Mr. Hawke."

     "Well, maybe it bloody _ought to be_. Maybe people in this town wouldn't hate and fear the police if you treated us like _people_ and not crime statistics to make your boss look good, or like potential criminals if we aren't clean-cut white guys wearing Wall Street suits, or like potential _threats_ whenever we question what you do -- "

     "Thank you, Mr. Hawke," Cullen broke in then. His voice had gone to pure formal ice, edged in steel. "If you didn't want a ride to the CCRB office, all you had to say was 'no' -- but I'll be certain to take your additional feedback into consideration." He took a slow, careful breath, as if struggling to rein in temper. "I do hope you'll go ahead with the complaint, given your mistreatment. Regardless, please have a nice day."

     And then he hung up.

     Well, shit.

     But that solved Carver's little problem of being painfully attracted to a cop. "Fuck you, anyway," he said to his phone. "Now I know you're just like the rest of 'em."

     Then he tossed his phone onto the table, flopped back onto Isabela's couch, and tried not to feel guilty. He didn't really succeed, but at least he eventually fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

     For three days, Cullen could not think about Carver Hawke without his thoughts dissolving into cold rage. _Bleeding-heart fool. Without us, this city would drown in guns and drugs while you stand somewhere with a placard and shout about how evil we are!_ This went on for two days.

     Late on the second day, though, as Cullen began his shift for the evening, another nagging thought replaced it. Something Hawke had said, before he'd insulted Cullen's entire profession and personal honor. About checking on the Red-head.

     He'd already filed the report, but the details were clear enough in his mind. The Red-head was one Fenn Riel, age 20, from Westchester, though he'd vanished from his home there about a year ago, according to the Missing Persons report filed by his mother. No priors for possession, but one for solicitation. Seemed clear enough that his was a typical Red horror story: nice kid from the 'burbs somehow gets hooked on the most addictive drug in human history, parents turn him out or he runs away, either runs afoul of a pimp or just gets desperate enough to trade skin for hits, et cetera. The et cetera was usually the victim's gruesome or pathetic death: Red made for different stories, but always the same ending.

     Riel had been sent to Rikers to await trial, since -- despite the expensive jacket -- he'd had no money. According to the corrections file, he hadn't used his available phone call, either. Cullen sat back and tapped his fingers on his lips, wondering why this botherered him so much.

     Samson glanced up and grunted at him queryingly.

     "Nothing," Cullen said at first, and then amended himself. "Well. Just thinking about the perp in that coffeehouse robbery."

     "The barista?" Samson's eyebrows went up, and he grinned. "Hnh. _Thought_ he might be your type. Pretty, and tough."

     Cullen felt his cheeks flare, though he managed not to react much otherwise. Samson knew more about him than anyone else in the precinct, same as Cullen knew more about Samson; they were partners. Cullen kept all of it out of the gossip chain of the precinct as best he could, however, because the NYPD was still the NYPD, and he had enough trouble being a foreigner. Fortunately, Samson had spoken softly.

     "The _perpetrator_ ," Cullen repeated, mildly annoyed. Even Samson thought of Hawke as _the bad guy_. "The one charged with weapons possession?"

     "Oh, the kid. Why?"

     Cullen shook his head. "I barely looked at him." He'd been too preoccupied with Mettin's incompetence. "You?"

     Samson shrugged. "He wasn't the squeaky wheel that day."

     "We should have interviewed him."

     Samson looked irritated. "About _what_? 'Sir, did you happen to notice that you brought a sawed-off shotgun into a coffeeshop? No? Too high? Well, just FYI, you did.'"

     Cullen rolled his eyes. "If nothing else, we could have gotten a confession."

     "Didn't _need_ a confession. We got him red-handed on surveillance." Cullen had seen the recording, too, and had privately marveled at the whole thing. There, in grainy black-and-white, they'd seen Riel come in, looking jittery and nervous, and then almost hesitantly lift the shotgun. Hawke, on the register, had casually grabbed the barrel and snatched it from his hands, then hopped the counter and tackled Riel to the ground. Unfortunately the rest of the scene had gone out of the camera's range, or they would've had both Hawke's beating of Riel and the uniforms' beating of Hawke on tape. Alas. For the purposes of the possession charge, though, the tape had everything they needed.

     "I know, but..." Cullen frowned, not sure how to articulate what he was feeling. "It isn't right, that we've spoken to everyone _but_ the criminal about this."

     Samson looked skeptical, but finally he sat back. "Well, tell you what," he said. "You tell Merry Meanie -- " This meant Meredith Stannard, the precinct captain. " -- that you want to blow gas and mileage and investigation time on going to talk to a perp for a slam-dunk case, and I'll go with you."

     "You're my partner. You have to go with me."

     "Well, yeah, there's that, too."

     Shaking his head, Cullen got up and went to knock on the Captain's door. Meredith called brusquely for him to enter, so he moved to the space before her desk and assumed the quasi-military-at-ease position that she seemed to prefer for her officers to take. There were no chairs in the office other than hers.

     "Detective," she said, not looking up from her computer screen.

     Cullen said, "Rikers travel request. On the coffeeshop case."

     Hard blue eyes -- a completely different blue from Hawke's, Cullen noticed, then wondered why he'd noticed -- glanced up at him for an instant, then back down at the screen. "For what reason?"

     Cullen braced himself. "If the defense team should notice that we didn't even interview him -- "

     "The 'defense team,'" Meredith replied, "will be Miller, because the perpetrator in this case has declared himself indigent. You only need to show up at the trial for a conviction."

     In spite of himself, Cullen grimaced. Miller had fallen asleep in the middle of one of his clients' trials, a few weeks back; there were bets all over the precinct about when, not if, he'd do it again. The man had no business defending anyone -- but budgets were tight and the Public Defender's office had no choice but to keep incompetent lawyers on the payroll if it was to avoid federal censure. It meant that if the prosecutor pushed for the maximum sentence -- which she would -- Riel would probably serve many more years than he should.

     "Nevertheless," Cullen continued gamely, "I believe in providing as complete a file as possible. It may not be Miller on appeal, after all, or retrial. Or other scrutiny."

     Meredith's eyes, which had been tracking something on her screen, paused. She frowned, then sat back, gazing at him thoughtfully. "Other scrutiny," she said. "You believe the matter of Mr. Hawke's beating will come up again."

     Cullen blinked. That hadn't been it at all, but... well. "It's possible," he admitted. "I'm told he was briefly hospitalized afterward, and that he has broken bones."

     That Meredith winced made him feel somewhat better. "Has he mentioned a lawsuit? Filed a complaint?"

     "I don't know," Cullen said, honestly. "I, ah, did inform him that he _could_ file a complaint."

     Meredith's head tilted, her gaze abruptly sharpening, and inwardly Cullen tensed. _Why in the name of the Maker did I say that?_

     "You did," she said, flatly.

     Cullen set his jaw. If he was in it, then he was in it. "They beat him without provocation or mercy," he said, letting some of his real anger about the incident show. "Witnesses said it went on for several minutes. And if he has cracked ribs to show for it, these were no love taps."

     "Mettin said he resisted arrest."

     "With respect, Captain, Mettin said that about the 87-year-old paraplegic he arrested last week. And given his history -- "

     "Yes." Meredith sighed, running a hand through her hair. It was another point of gossip for the precinct, that Mettin's name had come up in a local news report about NYPD officers with the highest number of complaints for excessive force. "You're right to anticipate further scrutiny in the case. Very well, then."

     Cullen blinked in surprise. That had been easier than he'd expected. But as he turned to go, Meredith said, "You were told by whom?"

     "Pardon, ma'am?" He turned back to see Meredith watching him through narrowed eyes.

     "You said you were told about Hawke's injuries. By whom?"

     Damn. "By Hawke himself. He called me to inquire about how to file a complaint."

     She lifted an eyebrow. "You must have established quite the rapport with him. And in so brief a time."

     Helplessly, praying that he wasn't blushing, Cullen shrugged. "It is no more than I attempt with all victims on my caseload." And then he could not help grimacing. "But then he took the time to inform me of how much he despised the police, and that was the end of it."

     "Hmm." He knew he was in trouble by the way Meredith's fingers tapped on the arm of her chair. "Do you have some disagreement with Mettin, Rutherford?"

     Cullen drew back in surprise. "No. I do find him noxious, I'll admit, but I needn't love the man to work with him." Abruptly suspicious, he added, "Why?"

     Meredith shook her head. "It doesn't matter. He simply has... strong feelings about you." She tapped fingers again. "You might want to do a better job of keeping your private affairs private, Detective."

     "My -- " And then Cullen did flush, though with anger this time. "I see," he said, coldly. "Officer Mettin has some objection to the company I keep after hours."

     "To the gender of that company, yes." Meredith shrugged. "You aren't the only queer officer in the precinct, Rutherford. I think it mostly irritates Mettin that you made detective before he did, and that you are clearly more competent; he complains about other things to soothe his ego. But I've had to speak to him about his language before, regarding you. He's more creative, now, though I see it has all been behind your back."

     Cullen drew in a long, slow breath, then let it out just as slowly. "He is welcome to address the matter with me directly," he said. "I would be happy to meet him off-shift for further, honest discussion. No rank considerations."

     At this, the side of Meredith's mouth quirked in the bare hint of a smile. "I think that would be unwise," she said, "since I need every officer I have -- undamaged."

     Cullen almost smiled. "Pain can be remarkably illuminating."

     She started to answer, then paused, eying him with something like surprise. And since Cullen had no real desire to discuss the particulars of his sexual proclivities with her, he took a deep breath and amended, "But I shall, of course, ignore such petty provocations. It would not be the first time."

     "See that you do." Meredith sat back, regarding him now with -- respect? Amusement? Hard to say. "And see that both of you remember, I hope, that _perpetrators_ are the enemy. Not your fellow officers."

     Cullen inclined his head. "I believe I can keep that in mind, ma'am."

#

     Three hours later, in an observation room at Rikers Island, Cullen had to remind himself -- strongly -- of Meredith's admonition.

     The perpetrator -- the _boy_ \-- lay on the dingy infirmary cot, unmoving as the prison's medical staff shuffled around him. With a hospital gown on it was easier to see the damage that the drug had done: he was tall, blond, and inclined to be broad-shouldered, but his muscles had begun to atrophy and his skin hung loose on a bony frame. The telltale blackened veins were visible now in his face, spidering along his jaw and temples, but aside from that he simply looked _young_. Hardly twenty, his actual age.

     The staff weren't moving with any particular speed as they tended him, which probably owed more to the fact that there was no _point_ in speed anymore; what was done was done, and the boy would survive or die on his own at this point. Still, to Cullen's taut-held, furious perception, their lack of speed seemed like an added bit of callousness on top of what the boy had already endured, and it was taking everything he had not to just start shouting at them.

     _Be honest. You are furious with yourself, and your own callousness. Don't take it out on them._

     Yes. Well.

     Samson clapped a hand on Cullen's shoulder, then raised his eyebrows at the tension he felt there. "Not your fault," he said, with as much gentleness as the old bastard ever used. "You told 'em it was a Red case. Your ass is covered."

     It wasn't about ass-covering. But that, too, was a pointless thing to say.

     The doctor finally ambled over to them, rubbing his rumpled hair and looking more disgruntled than concerned. "Yeah, I don't know what happened," he said with a sigh. "Nobody told me this was a Red case. I mean, I see it on the paperwork now, and it was obvious once the seizure started, but..." He shrugged. "I don't know. Shit."

     Samson took one look at Cullen's face and then smoothly spoke for him. "Kid gonna pull through?"

     "Maybe." The doctor shrugged. "He's in a coma now. Red withdrawal is touch-and-go at the best of times, but especially for addicts in the late stages like this kid. If we'd gotten him on anti-lyrium sooner, or even methadone, he'd have a chance of recovery; he's young enough. As it is... I don't know."

     "He would have been sweating profusely," Cullen said. His jaw hurt when he spoke. The muscles were too tight. "Feverish. Delusional, weak, racked by pain. Did the guards notice none of this?"

     "Mostly they were trying to keep the other prisoners off him," the doctor said, shrugging again. "You know what it's like for young guys, here. They had to put one of the Aryans in traction to keep him out of the kid's cell -- "

     "Certainly he should not have been abused," Cullen snapped. "Any more than he should have been left to rot of _life-threatening_ withdrawal symptoms. Tell me why I should not have you up for medical neglect -- "

     Samson grabbed his arm, putting on a terrible fake laugh. "Weeeeellll, sounds like the partner and I need to have a little tete-a-tete," he said to the doctor, who was staring at them both in alarm. "Back in a minute." And then he dragged Cullen out of the infirmary.

     " _That_ is a crime," Cullen snarled at him, pointing at the now-closed door. The corridor was brisk with guards and administrators, some of whom were glancing at him surreptitiously. He didn't care if they overheard.

     "Even if it is, keep your fucking voice down," Samson said, scowling and shaking his arm.

     " _Even if it is?_ You cannot condone -- "

     "'Course I don't!" Samson glared Cullen silent. "But you want that doc to get the bright idea to head off a neglect charge by putting some air in the kid's I.V.? Not like anybody ends up working here if they've got _integrity_."

     Cullen flinched silent, horrified. But... Maker. Samson was right. This was Rikers Island. Nobody gave a damn what happened to prisoners here.

     "Yeah. So calm the fuck down." When Cullen fell into a seething silence, Samson sighed and ran fingers through his hair. Exasperated, he said, "What's happening to you? You've always had a stick up your ass about the rules, okay fine, but you never used to give two shits about stuff like _this_. Why'd you even want to come here?"

     _Addicts don't need jail, they need help!_

     Cullen flinched at the memory. "I told you. To complete the file."

     "Bullshit, Cully. Something's up with you."

     _Maybe people in this town wouldn't hate and fear the police if you treated us like people --_

     "Nothing's up," Cullen said, automatically. But his anger was gone, now, replaced by shock, and a slow-burning bitter realization. "I'm fine."

     Samson stared at him for a moment longer, then shook his head. "Right," he said, sounding as if he believed Cullen as far as he could throw him. "Well. I'll go in here and smooth things over with the doctor you pissed off. The way I always do. Then we're getting out of here." He looked around, wrinkling his nose at the dim fluorescent lighting, the smell of industrial floor cleaner and omnipresent hint of urine, the ugly walls, the disinterested gazes of the staff. "Never liked this fucking place." Grumbling, he went back into the infirmary.

     Cullen slumped back against the wall to wait for him, and tried not to notice his own trembling.

#

     But later that morning, with his shift over, as he lay on the bed of his small apartment and stared at the ceiling, Cullen fumbled one hand into the pocket of the coat he hadn't bothered taking off. Yes. The card was still there.

     "The fuck do _you_ want," Carver Hawke said, picking up only after a solid ten rings. Cullen hadn't thought he would answer at all.

     "You were right." The words came of their own volition, or so it seemed, blurting themselves from Cullen's tongue. "I went to Rikers. Checked on Riel. He was..." Maker. Cullen sighed. "You were right."

     There was a long, pent silence on the other end of the line. Then, finally, Hawke said, "You want some coffee?"

     It was ten a.m. Cullen worked the night shift. He needed to sleep. But he said, "Yes."

     A heavy, reluctant sigh. "Well. Come on by, then."


	4. Chapter 4

     Carver hadn't really expected Detective Posh to show up at CafeAulTheWay, or to just stand in line like an ordinary bloke. He'd figured they would see one of those unmarked cars cops thought were so inconspicuous, pulling into a parking space that would get anybody else ticketed and towed, then Detective Posh striding in wearing that shitty trenchcoat and his badge on a cord around his neck. Maybe with his partner in tow.

     What Carver got, as he hobbled around behind the counter and tried to ignore Anders' glaring at him, was Isabela's elbow in his arm. "Ow! Shit, broken ribs?"

     "I didn't touch your ribs," she said. "Look."

     So Carver looked around, and then blinked as he spied a familiar blond head in the line. Maybe five people back, and so... _ordinary_ -looking. He wore only jeans and a dark-colored jumper, and he was looking at his phone. Off-duty, apparently. He hadn't spotted Carver yet.

     "I'll cover for you, if you want to bug off to the breakroom and not be here," Isabela murmured. "Anders didn't want you coming in today anyway."

     "Uh, no. I, uh -- " Shit. "I invited him here." _Just didn't think he would actually come_.

     She stared at him -- and then her eyes narrowed suddenly. She looked back at the cop, then at him. "Oh, I don't _believe_ it."

     "Shut up," Carver said unnecessarily, brushing past her and going back to the register. He had to ignore her giggle in the process.

     It didn't make any sense, Carver seethed, while continuing to ring up orders with one part of his mind. It didn't make sense that the detective had called him, and Carver definitely didn't understand the impulse that had prompted him to invite the man to the cafe. Okay, so Rutherford was hot. But Carver wasn't eighteen anymore, and he didn't think with his dick. (Much. Anymore.) He'd met other hot guys. Hell, he was _screwing_ other hot guys. Well, okay, screwing one hot guy, but -- fuck.

     Then from the corner of his eye, he saw Rutherford put his phone away. The look on his face... Carver found himself staring, and frowning. Rutherford looked as though he was weighing something life-and-death, rather than just checking Facebook.

     _Yeah. That's why._ Because in that brief phone call, it had been clear that the detective was going through some kind of long dark night of the soul. Carver had never been able to just ignore someone who _needed_ , like that.

     Except he was ignoring the woman before him, who needed a shoofly pie latte and was starting to glare at him. Hastily Carver apologized and took the woman's order, then that of the guy behind her, and then --

     Rutherford. He looked as disconcerted and awkward as Carver felt, which was maybe a good thing. "My apologies," he said in his too-posh, velvet-soft voice. "I, ah, I did not realize you would be working."

     "He's not," Isabela leaned in to say, before Carver twitched and shouldered her out of the way.

     "Fucking _quit it_." Grimacing, he said to Rutherford, "My co-workers are pretending I don't have bills to pay."

     "Your co-workers," Anders called from the office, not bothering to look up from the books, "aren't interested in taking care of you if you suddenly keel over from bruised kidneys."

     "Or broken ribs," Merrill added brightly, as she bustled past him to pull an espresso.

     Fuck. Rutherford had begun to regard all of them with an open, amused look, which was not the impression Carver wanted to make. Not that Carver wanted to make an impression. The line had whittled down to only two people behind Rutherford, so Carver shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Isabela, can you get the line for a bit after this?"

     "I can indeed, considering you aren't _actually_ working today," she drawled from the other register.

     "'Bela, please remind him that he has _actual_ sick days, too," Anders called from the office, where he was writing down supply orders.

     "Meddling sons of -- " Carver took a deep breath. "What's your order, Detective Rutherford?"

     Rutherford blinked. "Cullen. I'm off-duty. Ah, just coffee, please."

     "What, no tea?"

     Rutherford's -- Cullen's -- eyebrow quirked in wry amusement. "Have you any that's worth the name?"

     Carver laughed despite himself. "'Course not."

     "Well, then."

     So Carver pulled a medium roast for Cullen and then a dark roast for himself, and then they retired to one of the unused tables in the corner of the cafe. Cullen, to Carver's complete non-surprise, took his coffee black. Carver heaped sugar, cream, cocoa powder, and a sprinkle of cayenne pepper into his, and then sat there sipping it and wondering what the fuck to say. His only consolation, at least, was that Cullen seemed equally at a loss for words -- but there was a deep, troubled furrow between his brows nevertheless.

     " _Should_ you be working?" he asked, turning that troubled look on Carver. "The injuries you mentioned -- "

     "Not you, too." Carver sighed, rubbing his eyes again. His neck twinged as he did it, but he tried to ignore this. "I heal fast, all right? And as long as I don't bend down or try to lift anything, I'll be all right. The others are looking out for me."

     Cullen was staring at his jaw, and the huge yellow-purpled bruise Carver knew was on the side of it. "They kicked you in the _face_."

     Carver let out a humorless laugh, trying to fight back the temper that rose with it. He didn't feel like another fight. "Yeah, once, and then I heard somebody say, 'Not the face.' But they'd already scraped me." He turned to the other side to show the now scabbed-over scrapes along that jaw. He'd shaved around them, but knew they still looked bad.

     Cullen's hand came up, almost automatically, and then he stopped himself. "Oh. Ah, may I?"

     Carver regarded him for a moment in suspicion, then finally shrugged. Cullen's fingers took hold of his chin very gently, turning Carver's face into the light. His scowl deepened. "Did you take photos?"

     "Yeah." Carver watched his face, and wondered why the hell his belly was all full of fluttering. "Filed the complaint already, too. And my friends have a GoFundMe going so I can maybe get enough money to hire a lawyer, talk over the possibility of a lawsuit."

     Cullen sobered. He let go of Carver's face. "You should not tell me more, in that case," he said. "I'm glad you're pursuing the complaint, however."

     Carver stared, a little thrown. Then it occurred to him: "You in trouble for telling me to complain?"

     "Nothing I cannot handle." But Cullen's eyes drifted away, so Carver figured that might be a lie. Cullen had begun skimming his cellphone again, too.

     "Hot date?" Carver prompted. Not that it would bother him, if so.

     "Oh. No." Cullen hesitated. "I... am thinking of calling Fenn Riel's mother."

     "Who?"

     "Riel. The Red-head who attempted to rob you."

     Carver caught his breath. _You were right_ , Cullen had said on the phone. "You went to see him."

     "Yes, at Rikers. He is comatose. Someone put him into solitary confinement -- standard for men under 21 there, for their safety, but he wasn't watched. He suffered a seizure..." Cullen took a deep breath. "And now his nightmares have taken him."

     "Shit." Carver shook his head. " _Shit_. I figured he must've been in a bad way if he tried to rob us. I could see he didn't know what the fuck he was doing; that's why I went easy on him." Then he scowled. "Wait. You mean they weren't watching him _medically_? There's treatments for Red withdrawal, I heard."

     "Yes. Which weren't administered." It was sort of fascinating to see a muscle ripple along Cullen's jaw. His face was cool, blank, but the jaw said it all: he was fucking furious. "He was left to rot, until he had a seizure. Fortunately the corrections officers _noticed_ the seizure, or he would be dead already."

     Carver felt his own jaw beginning to tighten. _Never forget he's part of this,_ he reminded himself. _He's not just some ordinary guy. Even if he's not one of the bad ones, that doesn't make him_ good _. Never forget that_. "Surprised you care," Carver said. It felt wrong to say. Mean. But it was the truth, too. "Can't be the first 'perp' you've tossed into a dark hole and forgotten."

     Cullen flinched, glaring at him. And then -- to Carver's very great surprise -- something in that glare faltered and went tarnished.

     "Yes," Cullen said. His voice had gone very soft. "I have been thinking about the others. All morning."

     Oh.

     Shit, then.

     This was too heavy a conversation for a coffee shop. Carver took a deep breath and ran a hand over his hair. "Why'd you come here?" It wasn't the most tactful thing to say, especially not to a man in some kind of emotional distress, but there it was. "And why are you talking to _me_ about this? You don't even like me." Cullen didn't answer, still gazing at a spot on the cafe's window like it was on sale. Carver sighed. "What was that about the Red-head's mom?"

     Cullen's hand twitched on his phone. "She filed a missing persons report on him, a year or so ago. She doesn't know he's in Rikers, possibly dying."

     "She doesn't? Fuck. So -- " Carver frowned. "You mean you haven't called her?"

     "Riel could have. I checked. They didn't put him in the infirmary like they should have, but they did offer him his phone call. He didn't take it."

     "You sure? If they fucked up on one thing... And what if the kid was just out of it and couldn't remember the number, or something?"

     "That's a possibility."

     "So then you should do it for him!"

     "He's over 18. If he was coherent, not calling was a choice he made. Who am I to override that choice?"

     Carver stared at him, incredulous. "Are you actually saying you'd let him die without his mother ever having the chance to see him alive again?"

     Cullen looked sharply at him. "If I had become what that boy has become, I would fight tooth and nail to _keep_ my family from seeing it. Wouldn't you?"

     "Wouldn't fucking become it in the first place."

     Cullen tilted his head. "Wouldn't you? Do you know the most common indicator for potential addiction? Trauma of some sort, frequently emotional. Have you never suffered in your life? Do you think you never will again?"

     Shit. Touche. But -- "If you _know_ that, then why'd you treat him like nothing! Toss him into Rikers and forget he exists?"

     "Because -- " Cullen's voice rose, but then he caught himself. He lowered his gaze again, nostrils flared with the effort of holding in whatever he'd almost shouted. "It isn't supposed to _be_ like this. We're supposed to..." Something rippled over his face like a wave over the sea; he took a deep breath. "Somewhere along the way... I forgot what was right."

     There was nothing Carver could say to that. To cover the uncomfortable silence that fell, he sipped his coffee, fidgeted, gazed out the window to peoplewatch, and glanced around the cafe. The last was a mistake, because at the counter Isabela caught his eye and pantomimed fellatio, complete with poking her tongue against her cheek. She jerked her chin at Cullen, waggling eyebrows in blatant suggestion. Carver choked on his coffee. When Cullen drew out of his brooding funk and blinked at him, Carver quickly wiped his mouth cleared his throat. "Uh, sorry."

     "Are you all right?" Cullen's gaze flicked down to his throat, and Carver remembered the chokehold.

     "Yeah." He fingered where the mark had been, though it had healed. "Just a bruise. Look." Uneasily he rubbed a hand over his hair. "Why _did_ you come here, Cullen? What do you want from me?"

     Cullen took a deep breath. "I think I want you to decide."

     Carver gave him a side-eye. "Oh-kaaaay."

     That muscle in Cullen's jaw was as telltale as a metronome. He pushed forward his phone. "What should I do?"

     Riel's mother. "You've got to be kidding me. You're asking _me_?"

     "At the moment, I don't know if I dare trust my own judgment. I can't decide. And I..." Jaw-flex, again. "Help me."

     It was almost ludicrous. Almost pathetic, and yet... Carver shook his head, slowly. "That's... shit, Cullen. I don't know. That's too much power to give me."

     "So that power should be left to me, alone?" Cullen laughed without humor. " _A cop_?"

     He managed it with just the edge of contempt that Carver tended to use verbally, and even to think. Carver grimaced at the jibe. "Having too much power sure as fuck never _stopped_ you people before."

     "He assaulted you."

     There was that. Carver sighed and shifted, and finally made an impulse decision. "Call her."

     It was gratifying, and something more, that Cullen immediately turned on his phone and began navigating back to the number. He did pause before pressing the green "call" symbol, however. "Do you want to hear this?"

     Carver swallowed. But making a decision without accepting the consequences felt wrong. "Yeah. If that's okay. We can go to the breakroom again if you want. It's quieter, there."

     Cullen nodded and rose. "The charge against Riel is weapons possession, filed by the DA; she thought she would have a better chance with that since none of your friends would testify to assault or robbery. So I doubt there is any conflict of interest -- though I am no lawyer."

     Carver almost chuckled. Not just posh, but _proper_ , and almost painfully literal-minded. It was increasingly hard to hate him. "Not what I meant." But he beckoned, leading the other man behind the counter and toward the breakroom of the cafe.

     Cullen "ahh"-ed as he finally understood. Carver flicked on the lights in the breakroom, which took a moment to warm up given that they were cheapshit fluorescents. In the instant of dim, flickering light, he heard Cullen say, very softly, "I would like it. If you listened in."

     Carver glanced over at him. In profile his expression was cold, almost detached; completely unlike the quiet desperation in his voice. Ah -- there, though: his jaw was now so tight that a vein stood out near his temple. He was going to get a headache at this rate. _All right, then_. Carver nodded and moved to sit at the table. Cullen kept standing, though he set the phone down before Carver and touched the button, hitting "speaker" too.

     After a few long rings, there was a click and then a deep woman's voice said, "Hello?"

     "Arianna Sabray?" Cullen's voice was brisk and professional. "I'm Detective Rutherford, of NYPD Anti-Crime, 77th Precinct."

     There was a soft catch of breath on the other line. "I'm Arianna. I -- Is this about my son? Have you found him?"

     Cullen's eyes flicked to Carver's for an instant, the only outward sign of the conversation's effect on him. "Yes. Fenn Riel is currently in custody at Riker's Island, on a charge of weapons possession. He attempted to rob a coffee shop at gunpoint, and -- "

     "What? _Fenn_? No, no, he wouldn't -- " She swallowed audibly. "Oh, Maker. He must have. Please go on."

     Cullen licked his lips. "He isn't well, Ms. Sabray. He is -- " And here he faltered for an instant. "There were mistakes -- At the jail, he -- " His nearer hand tightened into a fist. "I informed the jail that he's an end-stage Red addict in withdrawal, but -- I should have checked on him."

     And then Cullen went silent entirely. Just stood there, fist tight as a stone, expression a weave of anguish in furrowed brows and hard lines around his mouth and even his nose wrinkled. _The fuck?_ On impulse, Carver reached for his hand. It twitched under his, and Cullen started and looked at him in surprise.

     In the silence, the woman said, in a voice that quavered, "Is he dead?"

     Cullen just stared at Carver. "Go on," Carver mouthed silently and urgently. "Don't leave her fucking hanging!"

     At this, Cullen jerked a little, then seemed to pull himself together. "No," he blurted. Then his previous professional tone resumed. "He lives, but he's had a seizure and is currently in a coma. His condition is serious."

     "Oh, oh," Ms. Sabray said, and then there was a muffled sound. _Crying_ , Carver realized abruptly. _She's crying, and covered the phone._

     After a moment, though, the muffled sound stopped. "Thank you for telling me, Detective," she said, thick-voiced. "I'll go there as soon as I can find someone to give me a ride. I... thank you."

     Cullen twitched a little. It wasn't visible; Carver just felt it through his hand. "I can take you, this evening before my shift begins. You have my number now. If you get a ride sooner, let me know, but otherwise..."

     "Oh, Maker. Oh, my boy." Sabray took a deep breath. " _Thank_ you, Detective. Whatever happened, I... it's good to know that someone cares. I'll let you know."

     She hung up so quickly that Carver figured she was going to make a good cry of it. Cullen kept staring down at his phone until Carver squeezed his hand to get his attention. "Hey." Cullen focused on him. "You can't do that again," he said, firmly.

     "What?"

     "Focus on _you_ , instead of what somebody else needs. For fuck's sake, you gonna freak out every time you make a mistake, instead of doing what you can to _fix_ it? End up with a lot more Riels that way."

     "I _know_ that." Abruptly Cullen seemed to sag; he sighed and lifted a hand to rub his eyes. "Maker. I... know that."

     Carver took a deep breath, surprised to find himself tense as well; the conversation had been harrowing even just to listen to. "You, uh, you want me to go with you to pick her up?" This drew a very odd look from Cullen. Belatedly Carver realized what he was saying: go with a cop to meet the mother of the guy who'd tried to rob him at gunpoint. And whom Carver had himself beaten the shit out of? Yeah, no, bad idea. "Shit. Didn't think that through."

     Cullen's mouth lifted into a smile on one side. "You didn't, but the thought is... appreciated."

     "Happy to help." This whole thing was just too weird to deal with. Cullen had never sat down, so Carver stood up, awkward now as he tried to think of a way to get rid of the guy. He'd taken his hand off Cullen's while lecturing him, since that would've made things especially weird, but all at once Cullen reached out and took hold of his wrist. Carver realized that standing up had bared his wrist; he was wearing one of Isabela's old boyfriends' sleeved shirts today. Cullen turned his wrist over, searching for the welt that the cuffs had left. There was only a thin white line; the scab had come off that morning.

     "You _do_ heal fast."

     Carver shrugged, then winced as this made his collarbone twinge; there was a bruise there that hadn't quite healed away yet. "Always have." He blinked then as Cullen's thumb snaked out to graze the thin skin of his wrist, where the mark had been. Almost as if he missed the blemish being there.

     Which would've been creepy, maybe, if that smooth, brief stroke had been a hair lighter, or any heavier. Too light and Carver would've figured it an unintentional touch. Too heavy and it would've been threatening, maybe. A suggestion of mere violence and not... something else.

     Instead, the touch was just right. Which meant that it made the skin of Carver's wrist tighten and his fingers twitch and his belly clench and -- whoa -- his nipples tighten, just a little. Which reminded him that Cullen was right there and way too damned hot and the almost-faded-away scent of his cologne was nice and he was looking at Carver right now in this intent, searching sort of way that Carver didn't really understand. Or _want_ to understand. He just stood there, caught by it.

     "May I kiss you?" Cullen asked, very softly.

     Whoa.

     But.

     Carver swallowed. This was wrong. _A cop_. Shit.

     But.

     "Yeah," Carver said.

     So Cullen stepped forward, let go of Carver's hand, and -- whoa times three -- cupped his hands 'round Carver's jaw. When he leaned in Carver felt sort of detached, not quite there, like he was seeing it happen to someone else. Like those weren't his lips being brushed at first by Cullen's thinner ones, then flattened, then nudged a little apart so that the lower lip could be suckled gently, then nudged further and covered so that, unseen, a tongue-tip could dance along their inner edges. It wasn't the kiss that did it. What made Carver catch his breath and shudder and close his eyes and make a little sound of pleasure was the fingering. Ha ha. _Cullen's fingers_ , that was, threading into Carver's hair, pinkies grazing the nape of his neck, index fingers pressing just a little against the occipital knot. Maker, that felt like sex. Like something else pressing into something else, and holding him firm while it happened but meanwhile driving him crazy with little touches and the barest stinging press of fingernail to keep him on edge. _Then_ Carver paid attention to the soft, slightly dry feel of Cullen's lips, and the not-unpleasant scratch of his thin circle beard, and the faint salt-lemony taste of his tongue. Then Carver shivered and reflexively reached for Cullen's hips, finding them tense as if he was thinking about a whole other sort of hip-movement, and that got Carver thinking about other hip-movements too, and damn if his dick wasn't immediately so interested in the idea that Carver stepped closer still and inhaled and opened his mouth more in invitation: _come in, come_ on, _give me more_ \--

     Through the breakroom door, somewhere in the street outside, a police car passed with siren blaring. Carver tuned it out with the skill of a lifelong city dweller, but Cullen jumped and pulled back at once. He looked dazed, surprised, dismayed, and utterly at a loss.

     Then without another word, he pivoted and walked out of the breakroom, leaving the door swinging open behind him. This let Carver see him walk out of the cafe, over to the curb where a small blue car was parked -- ordinary plates, _his_ car and not an unmarked department car -- and drive away.

     " _Fuck_ ," Carver said.


	5. Chapter 5

     _His fingers were in Hawke's hair, his tongue in Hawke's mouth. After only the barest of pressures the other man opened for him, relaxing beneath his touch and making a little sound that made Cullen want other sounds from him: soft pleading cries, low moans, whimpers. Then Hawke stepped closer, and it would have been so easy then for Cullen to tighten his fingers, grip Hawke's hair, push him to his knees. To make him beg, lovely tenor voice skirling higher with rising need; to push him down on the floor of the breakroom and hold him there, lovely painted skin goosebumping against the cold linoleum as Cullen leaned down to whisper in his ear: "Tell me when you've had enough." And then he would --_

     A horn blared behind Cullen's car and he started out of the fantasy, blushing unnecessarily as he finally noticed the green light and resumed driving. Maker.

     He shouldn't have kissed Hawke -- _Carver_. Shouldn't have asked for the kiss, even if he'd half-suspected that Carver would laugh at him and then throw him out and report him for sexual misconduct. Shouldn't have touched him again, or looked at the smooth wrist that had somehow become an erogenous zone for Cullen over the past few days, or searched Carver's face for some hint of acceptance of this caress. Shouldn't have _reacted_ to that acceptance when he'd seen it. Indeed, every erotic impulse within Cullen had gone feral with demand at just the thought.

     The thought. Of kissing a man who hated cops. A victim on one of his own cases. A _barista_.

     "You are your own worst enemy," Cullen said aloud to himself, before forcibly turning his thoughts back to the drive.

     He went home and managed to get some sleep, then when he saw that Ms. Sabray had called back and asked for a ride, he drove to Westchester to pick her up. Arianna Sabray was a small, angular-faced woman, more delicate-looking than her son, with gray eyes like dreary rainclouds and permanent lines etched deep on her brow and around her mouth. She spoke little as they drove, and Cullen resisted the urge to ask her questions. Even this much contact with the mother of a perpetrator was problematic; if the DA found out what he'd done, it would surely earn him a tongue-lashing at best, or lose him his pension at worst.

     He could not regret the decision when he saw Sabray's face, though, as the doctors let her into the room to visit Riel. She did not descend into wailing or weeping as he'd half expected; instead, she just pressed her forehead against her son's, shut her eyes, and did not move for half an hour other than to tremble. The doctors and corrections officers looked at Cullen in confusion as he stood there, watching her and aching in sympathy with her grief. It was clear they couldn't figure out what he was doing there. _So rarely do we show the compassion we should_ , he thought, bitterly.

     But he had to go to the precinct to start his shift. To one of the NYPD uniforms on duty in the facility, he said, "See that Ms. Sabray has a way home when she's done visiting her son."

     The uniform, a big-eyed rookie, blinked and blurted, "How, sir?" Cullen stopped and looked at him, and though he wasn't angry, something in his face made the rookie flinch. "I -- I'll find a way, sir!"

     "See that you do," Cullen said, and turned to head out.

     "Detective," said a voice, just after he'd passed through security and was on his way toward the parking lot exit. He stopped to see a tall, black-haired woman striding toward him. She wore a sleek black London Fog coat and boots that were so polished that they shone like armor. As Cullen turned to face her, her gaze raked him as if sizing him up for a fight. Unconsciously he drew himself up a little more, lifting his chin; one of her eyebrows quirked in amusement at this. Apparently not finding him wanting, she reached into her coat pocket to pull a badge. He glanced at it, focused on her, then started and looked hard at the badge again.

     "The feds?" he asked, frowning in instant suspicion. It was never good when the FBI got involved in anything. And why were they talking to _him_?

     She inclined her head. "My name is Cassandra Pendergrass. May we speak for a moment?" Her voice was oddly accented; something European. He hadn't thought foreigners _could_ work for the FBI. When she glanced up and to one side, and then toward another corner of the corridor, Cullen followed her gaze and noticed two of the prison's cameras. Each was pointed just slightly away from where they stood. Ah, yes: a dead zone in the prison's surveillance. As close to privacy as they could get.

     "About?" he asked, in a guarded tone.

     "I understand you have been in contact with a man named Carver Hawke, who was involved several days ago in the arrest of an armed robber."

     "I have, though he refused to press charges against the perpetrator in that case. The Brooklyn DA is handling it as a weapons charge." He frowned. "You should know that, however."

     "Yes. Were you aware that Mr. Hawke has filed a complaint against several officers in your precinct for excessive force?"

     "No," Cullen hedged. Carver had said he'd filed a complaint, but not against whom, or for what. That was stretching the truth, but he didn't particularly want a woman from the FBI knowing that he'd just stuck his tongue into the mouth of the man filing the complaint. "I'm not surprised, though; they injured him badly. What is this about?" He frowned. "Excessive force complaints against the NYPD aren't exactly unusual."

     "True." Her lips curved in a hard-edged smile. "Which would be why my agency is involved, Detective. I understand you were... unhappy with your colleagues, in the wake of this incident."

     Cullen stiffened and lifted his chin. "I criticized them, yes," he said. "Mildly, since we were in public, but it's my job to encourage lower-ranking officers in the use of correct procedure. As you well know. But I cannot testify against them, or whatever you have in mind, because I didn't see the beating with my own eyes -- "

     "We wouldn't ask you to testify," Pendergrass said at once. "You're a good cop, Detective Rutherford; we don't flip good cops. Only those with something to hide, themselves."

     At this, Cullen could not help thinking guiltily of the taste of Carver's mouth.

     "Then what do you want?" he asked, rather more harshly than he should have.

     Pendergrass eyed him for a moment, as if considering whether he was worthy of the truth. Then, finally, she said, "We want Karras."

     Cullen blinked. "Who?"

     "An officer in another precinct. Jameston Karras. We suspect him of running, for lack of a better description, a _police brutality club_. He has friends in every precinct, every department. When those friends hurt people -- and they _like_ hurting people, Detective Rutherford -- he moves in, usually before the victims can file a complaint. He looks out for his people."

     "He's threatening them into silence?"

     "We don't know what he's doing. But it's scaring and traumatizing the victims so much that they don't file complaints, or withdraw whatever they've filed. As a result, we believe 'his' officers are involved in many, many more incidents than the official record shows." She took a deep breath. "Citizens in your city have noticed. It's having a chilling effect on the whole process. The CCRB is far from perfect, Detective, but it can't even do the paltry job that it's meant to if this kind of interference continues -- "

     "Yes." Cullen folded his arms, deeply troubled now. And worried. Hadn't Carver said he was staying at a friend's? But for how long? "Yes, I can see the danger."

     Pendergrass inclined her head. "We believe Karras will be after Mr. Hawke now, since there were so many witnesses to his beating. A few cellphone videos are already circulating on the internet, though they haven't gone viral so far. And Mr. Hawke will be a target of particular interest because he is a white male. He's more likely to be believed than a victim of another demographic, if he gets the press involved or takes the matter to court."

     "You hope that I will warn him."

     "Not just that." Pendergrass took a deep breath. "What we want of you is... unorthodox, I will admit. But it's our hope that you will, off the books... protect him. And encourage him to push the matter of the complaint. Officer Mettin, who put him in the chokehold, is the key to our case. If Hawke can get Mettin put on a desk, or even just officially censured, Mettin is likely to go crying to Karras. Then we'll have them all."

     _Protect Carver._ Cullen shook his head, more in bewilderment than disbelief. "Mr. Hawke is a private citizen, and I'm not Witness Protection. How am I to keep one person safe from the worst of the NYPD?"

     "I know it will be difficult, but he is more likely to trust you than any of us. His profile reveals a profound distrust of authority figures. _Especially_ government ones. Granted, this situation shows that he has cause." She set her jaw, shaking her head grimly. "I can supply you with overtime pay, and perhaps some personnel. I'll also put in for a temporary transfer for you from the NYPD to our payroll. Unofficially, it will mean your job becomes guarding Carver Hawke, until this business is over. We'll create a cover story of you being invited to work on a trial basis with a special federal task force."

     Maker. They were turning him into a small-scale version of Witness Protection. Incredulous, Cullen said, "They know where he lives. All of that is in his file. Where his friends live. How...?"

     She inclined her head, as if in approval of the question. "If he agrees to file a lawsuit, I'll see if we can't get a safehouse for him. Until then... your file says you live in a two-bedroom. Convince him to come and stay with you."

     _"What?"_

     "The alternative," she said, her expression going cold, "is that Karras will almost surely do to Mr. Hawke whatever he's done to several other people we've tried to use this way. We _know_ that Karras employs extortion; it's a protection racket, among other things, charging victims for the privilege of not being harassed or beaten again. We _suspect_ that Karras's 'services' also involve torture. Chicago-style, Homan Square stuff. We have reason to believe that several unsolved murders are linked to this." At the look of horror on Cullen's face, Pendergrass nodded. "You see the importance, now."

     "Maker, yes."

     She inclined her head, then turned on her heel. "We'll send your captain the transfer information during your shift tonight. Meanwhile... contact Mr. Hawke, Detective. Convince him to trust you, as if his life depends on it."

     She walked away, and Cullen stood stunned in her wake for a long, pent moment.

     Then, slowly, with shaking hands, he drew out his cellphone and dialed Carver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, in the interest of trying to keep this something close to lighthearted (ha! ha ha! ha!) I'm going to start veering a little away from reality here. I know full well the feds aren't going to pay Cullen to sit around in a safehouse and ~~screw Carver's brains out for days on end~~ guard one guy in order to fight police extrajudicial violence. Thing is, for me to give this its due in realism, I would need to a) completely abandon any hope of lightheartedness or romance and just drive historic on the Bleak Literary Road, and b) make this a lot longer than I want to make it. I don't have time for that. (I should be writing, but not this.) So please forgive this, uh, far-fetched depiction of the FBI.
> 
> I'm going to try, however, not to short-change the depiction of police brutality in this 'fic, because real people have to deal with that shit in real life and glossing over it would be wrong. Anything related to that topic in this story is true. Yes, a very small number of NYPD officers are responsible for a large proportion of excessive force violations -- they probably aren't collaborating, but there's definitely something of an "abusers's club" within the force, and the whole organization keeps covering for them. And this is the Chicago PD, but look up Homan Square and Jon Burge, if you've never heard of them. Make sure your stomach is empty, though. Trigger warning for _everything._
> 
> Or don't, if you'd rather just think about pretty boys having sex. Your choice. I'm just telling you how I roll.
> 
> Anyway, likely to be a quiet week at work this week. Next chapter soon, probably.

**Author's Note:**

> This coffeeshop AU story has… died, I think. I gave it a few lunch hours and poked repeatedly at the next chapter in progress, but the feeling’s all wrong, and I know what that means. I did worry it was taking me too long to write the thing; I don’t like real-world modern stuff enough to maintain the creative energy for long, and this kept trying to go darker than I wanted so I’ve been fighting it the whole way. I figured it would last longer than that, though.
> 
> Oh well. It’s not a terrible thing. For the handful of you who were actually enjoying it, I’m sorry, but it proved that the urge to write endless awkward iterations of Carver and Cullen (or other DA characters) hasn’t left me entirely, which is actually awesome. I've missed writing fanfic! Hopefully the next one will be a better fit for me.


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